


A Singular Gentleman

by Chemical_Defect



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Background Case, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Teen John, Teen Romance, Teen Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 04:44:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5571604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chemical_Defect/pseuds/Chemical_Defect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The second son of the Holmes family, Sherlock Holmes, has struck of comradeship with Mr. John Watson.<br/>Their relationship evolves and elicits drama around them, at the same time a criminal affair unfolds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Singular Gentleman

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the annual Secret Santa Fic Exchange, this fic has actually taken up a life on its own -I had not originally planned for it to be more than 3,000 words. And now I've a number of ideas to explore in this universe - a very pleasing idea, because I had to do quite a bit of research for it, and I really look forward to put it back to use...and to further those readings.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you all enjoy!

 

“Mr. Holmes, it’s time to get social,” said Mrs. Hudson behind the ajar bedroom door.

“Boring…”

She crossed her arms.

“I don’t think that your classmate, whatever his name may be, would find it boring as you seem to do.”

A shuffling of sheets, noises of fumbling with clothes and he appeared in front of Mrs. Hudson.

“Oh, you’re up! And decent. That’s nice, I’m sure your friend will appreciate it.”

“I don’t have _friends_ …

“As you say. Still, you’d better have a nice, hearty breakfast before going out and meeting your non-friend.”

He shot her a glare then walked back to his bedroom where he looked through the window.

“I will need energy,” he said after a fashion.

“That’s what a hearty breakfast is for” she replied in a soft voice before leaving him to his thoughts for a few moments more.

“Mr. Holmes!” she called him out again. “Come down!”

 

Sometimes, his behaviour was such that Mrs. Hudson could feel like a parent dealing with a teenager.

However, as a distant family relation had informed her, she was nothing more than the Holmes’ housekeeper, although this insensitive rebuke did not prevent her from feeling as close to Sherlock as a doting aunt.

What prevented her from _showing_ it was propriety as well as her awareness of how he felt on the matter.

Mrs. Hudson was about to walk back upstairs and insist he went down and took his breakfast when she heard Lady Siger Holmes greet her son. Soon after that, he appeared in the dining room, a frown on his face.

“The play has been cancelled” he said before drifting off back to his thoughts.

Mrs. Hudson immediately stopped her fussing and came to him, a cup of hot, steaming tea in her hands. He took it absent-mindedly. Mrs. Hudson, who knew the young man since he was a child, didn’t wait for him to thank her and went back to preparing him a plate for his breakfast.

Either that piece of news would throw him into a gloomy and lethargic mood, or it would affect him for a few moments before he found an alternative.

Mere moments later, his body became a mirror of his racing thoughts, agitated. He began to pace around the room, twisting his wrists and intertwining his fingers before steepling them under his chin.

“I know!” he exclaimed. “Mrs. Hudson, Mr. Watson will indeed come to the house this afternoon, we will go horse-riding instead of going to the theatre, since the play has been _cancelled_ ,” he added under his breath, with no small amount of exasperation.

“Mr. Holmes, that's a nice idea...but why not simply go see _another_ play...?” she asked unaware of his imminent bout of anger.

“Mrs. Hudson, have you any idea how many _good_ plays are being performed at the moment?” he exclaimed with derision, the implied answer being similar to “ludicrously few.”

“What about going somewhere _else_?” she asked, unwilling to let the matter go.

“Inasmuch as _I_ would not be averse to going to less pleasant parts of town, I don't think Mr. Watson would be of the same inclination. Mycroft would never let the matter rest” he added resentfully.

Mrs. Hudson could not deny the veracity of the point raised by Sherlock -Mycroft Holmes _did_ take decorum extremely seriously, and venturing into "the other world" as he called it was unarguably against it. Unlike so many other servants, she was aware that, although the landed gentry had more privileges than the commoners, the rules they had to follow could be considered as constraints.

“It's a shame. You should ask Mr. Watson if he would consider it. Where will you be going, then?" she asked, making conversation despite it being inappropriate.

“I have no idea. I thought that we could ride through the estate, nothing too exerting." Sherlock replied, with no concern for the rules of propriety.

 

*

 

He was engrossed in his violin playing so much that he didn’t hear Mrs. Hudson announcing Mr. Watson, nor did he notice her presence before he had finished playing.

“Well, it’s a good thing you didn’t play for hours, this time.”

“Mrs. Hudson?”

“As I was saying, Mr. John Watson is calling.”

“Oh.”

He blinked.

“Do let him in, Mrs. Hudson.”

She retreated from the room. A moment later, she came back, guiding Mr. Watson in.

“Mr. John Watson.” She said before retiring.

“Mr. Holmes, how do you do?”

“ _Sherlock_ , please.” He dismissed Watson’s salutation, uncaring that he had broken yet another rule and if, by doing so, disturbed his guest who let out a small sigh.

When Watson didn’t make any move towards a seat, he remembered that his disposition was _not_ the same as his as regards propriety. Had the situation been reversed, he would not have thought much of it, nor would he have cared standing up. However, he was very well aware that John Watson would.

“Mr. Watson, thank you for calling. Pray, take a seat.”

Watson’s eyes kindled as he registered that Holmes would make an effort as to observe decorum, albeit slightly and in an awkward manner. He smiled discreetly in order to encourage his host in cultivating this behaviour.

“Thank you,” he added for good measure as he settled onto the sofa, tensing as he anticipated the silence that would undoubtedly come while Holmes registered that it was not the guest’s role to engage conversation.

“The play we were to go to has been cancelled,” Holmes said without preamble.

“Oh.” In any other situation, John Watson would consider this a dismissal. However, as he had been acquainted with Sherlock Holmes for a few months, he was aware that this sentence was not to be understood as something other than the facts. He waited for Holmes to continue.

“I thought we could go riding on the estate, if you are not opposed to it.”

“Not at all. I would say it is a splendid idea, especially if today’s nice, warm weather is to be taken into account.”

“It is settled, then.”

“Indeed, it is.”

Holmes rang for Billy, his own personal valet, to have Watson’s and his horse prepared for a ride.

 

*

 

Although Billy had both horses ready within fifteen minutes of receiving the order, Holmes did not see fit to change clothes. However, he slightly amended his position when Watson pointed out that riding should be done wearing boots, unless he wanted to ruin the fine new shoes his mother had bought him in London.

The two young men were riding at a leisurely pace. Watson was enjoying the silent companionship of his host who appeared to be deep in thought, as he was wont to.

“Why should you be ashamed of your family?” said Holmes.

Watson was befuddled at his comrade’s impertinence. He was about to turn his horse around when Holmes continued.

“You are exceedingly gentleman-like, very observant of the rules of conduct society has imposed on you, so much so that you have taken upon yourself to educate me as regards these matters –regardless that they’ve already been taught to me.”

“Mr. Hol… - “

“Your general conduct indicates that you come from a well-bred circle. However, your attitude towards me betokens…”

“Mr. Holmes, please.”

“…that your family lacks in manners and that…”

“Mr. Holmes!”

“…you are attempting to compensate for their flaws in making me, a proven example of disregard for decorum and propriety, closer to what others would call a ‘proper gentleman.’”

“Sherlock! _This_ is the precise reason why I don’t want us to ride on my family’s estate. Should we cross their path…I have grown to tolerate your ill-fitted behaviour and uncouth remarks provided you make efforts to diminish them. But I cannot continue being acquainted with such a boorish character. I demand immediate and sincere apologies.”

He looked at Watson as if he just realised he were next to him and, more to the point, that his whole thought process had not been as internal as he had thought.

“I…” he tried to answer with a witty remark, but all his words were lost when he saw the profound hurt written across Watson’s crumpled face. He was aware that his every move, the very construction of his apology down to his every word would not only have an impact on how this instant would unfold, but also weight in his decision to continue their comradeship and register in his memory as a crucial moment in his life.

“I…profoundly apologise…The words I have uttered have escaped my thoughts…”

“I rather think these _were_ your thoughts,” mumbled Watson.

“Nothing could have been further from my intentions to…offend you, as you are the most…caring, considerate, sensitive gentleman, and the only person patient enough to go through the exertion of making me a better individual.”

Watson did not reply.

“I sincerely hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive me…”

“I will keep you informed of the result of my deliberations as to that particular topic.” He replied, still obviously distressed and furious, but evidently attempting to conceal his inner feelings, which his companion would have taken note of under any other circumstance.

However, he was in such a state that everything but guilt and terror were at the forefront of his mind, and that the most evident signs escaped his notice.

“I will take my leave, Mr. Holmes.” he continued in the most collected manner he was capable of. “Good day.”

Thunderstruck by his companion’s abrupt departure, Sherlock stayed ahorse, unable to make even the slightest movement, apart from following the sight of John’s retreating figure.

 

*

 

“Dear! Mr. Holmes, what happened, you look positively downhearted?” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed as Sherlock came back inside a few hours later, retreating into his rooms without uttering a single word.

He was yet again lost in his own brain, but she glimpsed the appearance of a defeated soul. If she were asked, she would say that he had lived through a hurtful emotional moment earlier in the day.

Mr. Holmes would obviously deny any thing of the kind and, although she felt closer to him than was her place, she denied herself to intrude upon his evident distress.

No sound came from the upper floor, not even the cries of his violin on which he used to play whenever he was thinking.

She couldn’t help but wonder what had transpired during the afternoon for him to be in such a sombre, melancholic mood.

It was fortunate that his mother had not decided to entertain in the evening, for Mr. Holmes, never one for the company of others, would even be less so in such circumstances –whatever they may be.

When night fell she decided that it was time for him to have some company and went up to visit him, with a cup of tea as was her habit under troubled times. Softly she knocked on his bedroom door before letting herself in to meet with the sight of the young man deep in sleep, ink tainting his fingers and surrounded by numerous crumpled papers. It could not be sheet music for the paper was plain and Mr. Holmes’ violin was still resting in its case. Her curiosity was stronger than any sense of reason and after setting the cup of tea on a bedside table, she took one.

“ ~~John~~ ~~Mr. John Watson~~ Mr. Watson,” it read, “I am writing to express my most sincere apologies in regard to my insensitive words…” The rest of the letter was illegible, most of it crossed out and covered with ink stains. She took another which was similar in both tone and meaning but lacking in authenticity. It did not take a genius to understand the general situation in which Sherlock was.

As evidenced by the papers on the floor, he did not have the slightest idea of how to write a proper and heartfelt letter of apology. She resolved that she would assist him in giving him the elementary basis he obviously lacked.

 

*

 

Lady Siger Holmes was renowned for the quality of her entertaining parties which were filled with interesting conversation on topics as varied as politics, philosophy and arts.

Her two sons were regularly obliged to partake in them whether it suited their inclination or not, which was not appreciated by the younger of them, Sherlock, for he abhorred being in the company of the people his mother invited and, as a teenager, made it very clear to both the hostess and her guests.

The elder Holmes son, Mycroft, seven years older than Sherlock, had learnt to take it upon himself and would often remind his younger brother that it was mandatory for him to both attend and be civil during such parties.

“Come, brother dear, we have to attend tonight’s party.”

“And meet other people whose opinions are as inane as their lives are vacuous.” Sherlock completed. “I will have to decline.” he said in a mock disappointed manner.

“It is our duty to suffer through it.”

Sherlock made no indication he was about to follow suit and retained the sullen air he had adopted since his mother informed both his brother and him of the party.

“Mama will not tolerate your excusing yourself out of it by claiming to be unwell as you did last time,” said Mycroft sternly. Although he had grown out of his emotions dictating his behaviour early, he still felt a sense of jealousy towards his brother at having been able to accomplish such a feat –their mother having the rather unnerving habit of knowing when something was amiss and someone acting.

“I was sick. I still am,” retorted Sherlock. “She may very well come and check whether it is true, but she will find me unchanged.”

To his credit, Sherlock _had_ seemingly been going through a difficult time, exhibiting a constantly gloomy mood as opposed to the rapidly changing ones he usually showed, as any other adolescent young man would.

“However admiring I am of your acting skills, Sherlock, I have to insist you stop this to resume your role as a member of our prominent family and assume your societal duties,” Mycroft countered, emphasising on “prominent”.

“Duties.” Sherlock all but snarled. “Why should I care about _duties_!” griped Sherlock who then draped himself in his dressing-gown. Mycroft rolled his eyes and let out a sigh, pretending to be defeated.

“You would do well to remember that a behaviour which was tolerable in a six year-old child is not as well accepted in a fourteen year-old gentleman, brother dear. I will inform Mama of your unwillingness to comply this once as well. Do not be surprised, however, if she unleashes the guardians of Hell upon you.”

“Threat is not befitting of a gentleman, my Lord,” Mrs. Hudson observed.

“Mrs. Hudson. Why did you not knock? It is most impolite and improper to enter unannounced in a member of the family’s room. Not to mention correcting them on what is ‘befitting of a gentleman’ and what is not.”

“Apologies, my Lord. I did knock, although it was perhaps too discreet.”

“Assuredly. Well. Why have you come?”

“Oh, yes. Of course,” she said, producing what seemed to be a letter from behind her back, “I have a note for Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock’s head made a swift movement, reading her as openly as he had not done before. He leapt out at her and all but tore the note in his eagerness to read it.

Mycroft arched his eyebrow. This development was interesting. Perhaps his brother had been sick after all.

“I’ll leave you to it, Mr. Holmes, my Lord” said Mrs. Hudson, taking her leave, an undisguised smile on her face.

“After that effusive display of emotion, which contradicts your state of illness, I imagine you will reconsider your opinion on attending Mama’s entertaining party, brother dear. I will leave you to your…correspondence.” Mycroft excused himself out of his brother’s company while the latter ignored him superbly, as intent as he was on getting the note out of its envelope.

 

Not ten minutes had passed when the younger of the Holmes brothers appeared in the drawing room, cheeks red and eyes shining bright as if life had been breathed into him again. However much he would try to conceal or deny it, he was happy and his upturned lips were the most obvious evidence of it.

“Ah, brother dear, it is so good of you to come down. I gather that you are feeling better.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock replied.

“I am delighted to see that you are feeling better, Sherlock,” said Lady Siger Holmes. “I should nonetheless remind you that you will need to change into proper clothing before our guests arrive.”

“I will, Mama. I had really just come down to take a book from the library.”

“Are you thinking on entertaining our guests with something else than your customary pleasing mood?” asked his brother, a mocking tone in his voice.

“If you must know, I was thinking of preserving them from your dreary conversation,” retorted Sherlock.

“Settle down, the two of you. You know very well it is not a way to behave,” she reprimanded her sons who did not appear in the least contrite.

“Apologies, Mama, Sherlock” said Mycroft.

“Apologies, Mama, Mycroft” answered Sherlock begrudgingly. “I will go into the library, then back to my rooms to change. I will see you at dinner.”

 

*

 

Contrary to his usage, Sherlock was in the drawing room, waiting for the guests to arrive, a mask of feigned nonchalance upon his face.

He was seated on a lone, comfortable armchair with its back on the fireplace, surveying the room as the visitors filled it.

The night’s party was not exceedingly large and he did manage to recognise most of them. However, as he did not concern himself with trivialities, he was not inclined for small talk and, however hard he would try, he did not understand its value.

His opinion on small talk suddenly changed as he saw Mr. John Watson in an animated conversation with Miss Hooper.

“Miss Hooper, how do you do? It is very good of you to pay us a visit.” Holmes intruded on the conversation in an airy manner. He chanced a glance to Watson but could see no evidence of an interest in the lady – which was very convenient, because he was certain that Watson would object loudly to his voicing his displeasure in taking interest in another human being than himself. As the relations between the two young men were fragile at best, Holmes had no intention of angering Watson more than he already had. Nor had he any intention of trying to assert by mere observation the state of their relationship –or lack of relationship thereof.

“Oh. Mr. Holmes, it is my pleasure, really!” exclaimed Miss Hooper, who seemed pleased beyond measure at being addressed to by Sherlock Holmes, who had a reputation for being extremely unsociable and whose manners in polite society were not commendable. “What a fine house you live in!”

“Thank you. My mother does have excellent taste, does she not, Mr. Watson?” The young Mr. Watson locked eyes with him and in doing so acknowledged the silent salutation he had given him.

“Yes, indeed, Mr. Holmes. Has she made any new purchase since I saw you last?”

“Oh, you know each other!”

“Yes, we do.”

“Yes, quite obviously.” The two young men could not have answered in two more different ways, Holmes in a bored tone in which he could not conceal a note of pride, Watson with something akin to regret. Miss Hooper sensed that she had had hit a sore subject –although she could fathom no reason which could justify such different reactions- and turned the discussion to another matter.

“As I was telling Mr. Watson here, Mr. Holmes, there is an ulterior motive as to my visit to your family estate this evening.”

“Is there?”

“I shall leave you to it,” said Watson in obvious awkwardness.

“No, wait, Mr. Watson!” exclaimed Miss Hooper. “It is very likely that you could help me as well,” she added with such vivacity that Watson had barely had time to retreat a step backwards.

“I really cannot imagine how I could ever be of assistance.” He protested, faint anguish at the edge of his voice.

“Pray, remain, Mr. Watson. Surely you wouldn’t refuse your help,” Holmes said matter-of-factly. However, he was deeply aware of the fact that Watson would understand the double meaning to his words. Whether he would act on it remained to be seen.

“Indeed, Mr. Holmes, it is a trait I shall endeavour to maintain.” He said in agreeable manner, visibly enjoying Holmes’ attention to his person.

“Miss Hooper, you were, I believe, speaking of an ulterior motive to your visit?”

“Yes, I was,” she answered in a soft voice, her eyes darting around the room as if she expected someone to listen on her.

“Miss Hooper,” Holmes interrupted, maybe you would wish to withdraw to somewhere more discreet to have this conversation?”

“Quite right, Holmes.” Watson murmured at the same instant Miss Hooper replied “Oh, yes. That would be most convenient,” she confirmed, smiling in appreciation to his consideration.

“This way, Miss Hooper,” said he as he indicated the way to the library.

“I’ve recently received a note,” she said in a low voice when they were in the library, “and it said that I should be attentive to my jewels.”

“Presumably you want to be reassured, then,” declared Holmes. “May I see the note?”

“I...”

Holmes stared intently at her with an air of foreknowledge. Watson simply stood by his host, waiting and, if his stance was of any indication, still wondering why he had joined Holmes and what use he could be of until realisation dawned on him.

“It is most natural Miss Hooper to want to conceal this paper. However, you must rest assured that Mr. Holmes, as well as I, will keep its secrecy from any other party.”

“Thank you, gentlemen,” she replied, beaming. “You must excuse the foolishness of a young woman, a sudden fear –“

“There is nothing uncommon – “ Holmes started, before Watson abruptly cut him short.

“As I’ve previously told you, your behaviour is quite natural. You could not have asked advice to more discreet a person than Mr. Holmes if you wished to keep the note from anyone,” he said pleasantly, daring to approach her more closely.

“May I see the note?” Holmes enquired again, more firmly, extending his hand.

After a few moments of hesitation, Miss Hooper delicately put the paper into his care.

He examined it closely for a few minutes, after having quickly inhaled the scents which covered it. “This note should not give you any cause for worry,” he said as he gave her the letter back.

“I’m relieved you think so...Nonetheless, may I ask what you could use to support your conclusion, Mr. Holmes?”

“Observe, Miss Hooper, the paper on which the note has been written. It is not of the best quality –in fact, it is a very common type of paper. Yet, there is neatness in the way it is written, which indicates that the person who wrote this wanted to make an agreeable impression upon you. This has obviously been written by a man.”

“I am sorry, I don’t understand.”

“A man would be more inclined to try to please a member of the gentler sex, Miss Hooper,” explained Watson.

“There is no trace of any fragrance or perfume a woman would wear, as it undoubtedly would have transferred from the writer to the paper. I understand that the wording of the note itself could alarm you – and yet, the intention is commendable, as it is evident that they meant to warn you –”

“Warn me, Mr. Holmes?”

Holmes sighed inwardly, looking for strength in himself for he did not appreciate explaining his reasoning while he was delivering it.

“There is talk of a thief on the loose among the informed,” answered Holmes. “Presumably he thinks you would make an appealing victim –”

He glanced at Watson in order to verify that he had not inadvertently said something which could be received badly. As he saw Watson give him the slightest of nods, he continued, “ –and wanted to assert his good intentions in having this delivered to you, neatly folded, in an envelope, which I assume bore the same traces of respect as this.”

Miss Hooper was beaming with joy. “Mr. Holmes, I don’t know how I could thank you enough.”

“He was not finished, Miss Hooper,” indicated Watson who had noticed Holmes’ intake of breath.

“Were you not?”

“Indeed, I was not. I have yet to tell you the identity of the person behind that note.”

“Oh, Mr. Holmes! Surely you could...”

“He is certainly capable of telling you” Watson quickly said, so as to prevent Miss Hooper to provoke Holmes into his bad character, which he was trying to tame with apparent ease, “and I don’t doubt that he is also capable of discovering the identity of your secret admirer,” added Watson, a small smile starting to show on his face.

“Assuredly,” he answered in a warm tone to show his gratitude at the compliment Watson had just paid him. “This man has access to an extremely common type of paper which indicates that he does not belong to the class of the peerage. To this we may add that he did not sign the paper, suggesting a class difference too important to be ignored – another member of the refined society would have given his name. However, this person is learned enough to write a note in neat handwriting. It is not a ludicrous assumption to say his profession involves writing. This is all indicative of a learned working-man with a sense of duty and respect for the softer sex. He tells you to be “attentive to your jewels” which suggests that he is aware of the criminal activity in the city. We can in all probability deduce that this man is a member of the police force.”

“Incredible!” remarked Watson with pride and awe.

“It would be helpful to know his exact position in the hierarchy so as to precisely determine his identity and his character, but the mere fact that he knows about the criminal situation – which is not common knowledge unless a particularly nefarious event happens– implies that he holds a position of at least some responsibility in his workplace.”

“Mr. Holmes, that is most enlightening. Would you –“

“Yes, I would, Miss Hooper.”

“This is assuredly the best news of the evening. How can I thank you?”

“He will let you know when he has determined the gentleman’s name, Miss Hooper,” Watson replied, lending her his arm. “Shall we return to the drawing room?”

“Yes. Someone should be playing some music by now, and it would be indelicate to miss it,” she replied as she accepted Watson’s arm.

“Your chaperone must be wondering where you are, as well.”

“I still wonder how it was possible to escape her vigilance…”

“It may have escaped your notice, Miss Hooper – “

“Mr. Holmes, are you coming with us?” asked Watson with a pointed look, and loud enough to cover Holmes’ prideful and snide explanation.

“Naturally, Mr. Watson. Lead the way.” He answered with a beckoning gesture. _And I am more than happy to do so_ , he added in the privacy of his thoughts.

*

It seemed no one had noticed the three young people had vanished into another room as not one person remarked on their return – Mycroft Holmes excluded, who greeted the reappearance of his brother with a slight rise of the eyebrow, signalling him with the impropriety of his, Mr. Watson and Miss Hooper’s conduct. However, as he appeared to be the only one to have noticed their absence, he did not observe on it and merely continued conversing with a high ranking member of the peerage whose importance was evident to anyone who cared to observe. The younger Holmes deduced the man to hold a paramount position in politics –otherwise the probability of his brother to be so sycophantic would be nil – and did not seem to consider obsequiousness to be a flaw –if he had even noticed Lord Mycroft Holmes’ behaviour – for he did not appear to want the conversation to end, so engrossed he was in it. A fast survey of the peers and their field of expertise brought him to deduce that he was talking with Lord Carew Adonis, whose name was murmured to be that of the next Home Secretary.

Mycroft Holmes was an ambitious man, blessed with innate understanding of politics and human relations: it would be a crime not to make the most of it. However, Sherlock Holmes considered politics not only to be inane and manipulative but also vile lies, and as a result associated those qualities with his elder brother to the chagrin of their mother who was, despite her best efforts, unable to conceal it from them.

She was in the room, entertaining some of her guests at a cards table, playing a game of Pope Joan. Strangely enough, she was not winning, which was in all probability a way to make the other players feel at ease in her society. Were they more gifted, and were Sherlock Holmes playing, it would be a technique to lull them into complacency so that _he_ would win.

She saw her younger son in the room, and asked him to provide them with a piece of his composition.

“Mama,” he replied “it would be my pleasure to help your party have a memorable evening, but...”

“None of that, Sherlock Holmes. You _will_ play the violin,” she said in a tone that bore no argument.

Although a prideful man who was sure of his abilities and talents, Holmes could be burdened by a crippling shyness at times. Aware though he may be of Watson’s benevolence towards him in light of the evening’s events, he still felt terror creeping inside him when he thought of their quarrel and of permanently losing Watson’s companionship.

He knew that this type of reasoning was guided by _emotions_ rather than reason and despised it all the more: nothing could, even if he played his violin in the most dreadful fashion, severe relations between two people. He realised that he only was afraid to disappoint Watson and that he _would_ perceive how unworthy of his attention he was.

Lady Siger Holmes had been straightforward. She would tolerate no evasion from her son who would have to meet with her expectations. He could not ponder and abstain from complying with her demand.

“I will collect my violin from by chamber, Mama,” he answered, maintaining as dignified an appearance as he could.

Defeated, Holmes walked back to his rooms to retrieve his violin. Refusing to meet Watson’s eyes, he was aware that his behaviour of secrecy would make it seem as if he were retreating to his rooms for the remainder of the evening. He had an acute awareness of Watson’s look of dismayed perplexity and utter abandon. He did not dare meet his eyes. As he walked out of the drawing room, he could feel Watson’s eyes following him.

As soon as he was out of the fire lines and into his rooms where no one could see him, he closed his eyes and exhaled a breath full of tension. He took his violin out of its case with the utmost care, already thinking of the music he could play. For an instant his mind became devoid of any knowledge before it was flooded with information.

 _Into battle_ , he thought to himself as he stepped back into the drawing room, subjecting himself to Watson’s judgement.

 

Very few people paid him any attention as he returned to the party, and he made a point not to make eye contact with Watson as a wave of nervousness had swept over him and he had to exert himself so as to remain calm. Were he to perceive any negative sign displayed either on Watson’s demeanour or on his face, his feeble hold upon his nerves would shatter.

He stood in a corner of the room, which was not too lit so he could pretend he was not visible before starting. Inhaling sharply, he set his violin under his chin, closed his eyes and began playing.

 

The mood of the piece he was playing was light and playful, but one could also discern hope in it. He played in a precise manner, with care, as if enjoining his audience to dance in a carefully controlled way. The rhythm of the piece slowed and hesitation transpired in its mood, hidden behind the appearance of even more precision. The tone turned mournful and longing. Holmes was so invested in the emotions which stirred inside him that they obviously transpired into his music, moving the audience into the same feelings.

So transported was he by the music and the emotions he conveyed through it that he couldn’t see how people reacted to it. He heard discreet and distant exhales of breath, but their interpretations were lost to him, until he apprehended stronger, resounding vibrations which he could only associate to John Watson. His eyelids opened forthwith and his gaze immediately settled on Watson who was harbouring a painful poise, his chest heavily constricted, making his breathing laboured and consequently his body weaker.

Unable to draw his gaze from Watson, he noticed more and more details about him, but was unable to observe that his playing produced an intense effect on every member of the audience. Witnessing so deep a distress in someone so dear to him, he resolutely changed the tone of the piece, turning it into a joyful one. Gradually, he accelerated the rhythm, reached higher notes, setting aside the minor tone to explore the major one, transforming his work into less of a sorrowful experience and more into an indecent display of positive emotions. Watson met his eyes for an instant before abruptly averting his gaze.

Although the look they had shared had been extremely brief, he knew anger had never truly taken hold on Watson’s regard for him.

This revelation uplifted his tense and gloomy mood. It resulted in more fluid movements, which in turn produced a sweeter, even more emotional music, less based on technique. He was transported by what he was expressing through the music, completely free of any chains.

The walls he had erected to protect himself against feelings had crumbled and turned to dust.

            Holmes set down his bow in the deafening silence which resounded in the room. The members of the audience were thunderstruck, unable of any thought or reaction.

The younger ladies, who had not quite mastered their emotions yet, discreetly wiped their eyes. The oldest tried to maintain a neutral face, to no avail for the passion they had just witnessed still possessed them, as was evidenced by their flushed cheeks. Men shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot, as if trying to tame a fiery beast, wreaking havoc inside them.

Holmes had no comprehension on what could have brought such reactions forth, for it was not the first time his mother had entreated him to entertain her guests with his violin playing. He debated whether to bow like virtuosi did after they had held their audience spellbound –but promptly decided against it. Despite what suggested the evidence, he judged the intensity of his music, played to such a reduced audience, could be considered as improper, if not immoral. Electing it was the safest course to abstain from any more social faux-pas, he went back into the small crowd as smoothly as he could, looking for an escape.

 

“Holmes!” said Watson’s all too familiar voice. “Mr. Holmes, a moment, please,” he added as the musician continued walking. As Holmes had beckoned him to follow, he did so in a purposeful stride. He quickened his pace so they’d be side by side.

“Holmes,” he said quietly before coming to a halt, “can we talk? Here?”

“You don’t want any impropriety to be rumoured, do you, Mr. Watson,” he answered in a surprisingly gentle voice.

“I…” Watson looked everywhere in the room, his gaze moving from one person to the next without settling on anyone. “No,” he answered finally, fixing his eyes on Holmes. “No, Mr. Holmes, indeed I don’t. I don’t want impropriety being _rumoured_.”

Holmes breath briefly caught in his throat.

“Oh.”

“You are in the most eloquent state today, my good sir,” replied Watson, chuckling.

“Mr. Holmes, I wanted to congratulate you for such a wonderful musical rendition,” said a voice, which he recognised to be Miss Hooper’s, from behind him.

“Thank you, Miss Hooper,” replied Holmes in a tone in which awkwardness pierced for those who knew him the best. Miss Hooper neither knew him nor heard the awkwardness Watson’s words had brought forth.

“The piece you played was very deep and emotional. It really was impressive. One rarely has the privilege of witnessing music as well as hearing it. What was it?” Miss Hooper asked, showing her under developed classical music knowledge. Watson stayed by his side, to maintain the idea of polite conversation, but in reality he was supporting him through Miss Hooper’s intervention. His friend’s mere presence helped alleviate the torment of observing politeness.

“I must admit that it was made of various pieces,” he replied evasively. “After all, I had very little time to prepare, and did not want to force on such a rich party a piece that was not _perfectly_ mastered,” he added after a pause.

“How very considerate, Mr. Holmes.”

“I must say I agree with Miss Hooper,” said Watson “the piece _was_ fantastic and it was indeed an amiable and thoughtful gesture.”

“You flatter me, Mr. Watson, Miss Hooper” Holmes replied. “I am pleased that you enjoyed the entertainment of the evening. However, I am afraid I must retire to a quieter place. Playing with such intensity has a draining effect.” he said before stepping away.

“Mr Holmes,” cried Miss Hooper, “pray forgive me for delaying you having some well-deserved rest. I _had_ to tell you how much I enjoyed the music you played tonight –and to convey the ladies’ appreciation. I will not detain you any longer for I can see that you need to rest,” she concluded, letting the two young men resume their conversation.

After he was certain that nobody else would come insert themselves in their conversation, Watson declared that he was hungry.

“Oh. I am quite sure Mrs Hudson could…” He abruptly stopped in the middle of his sentence, realisation dawning on him. Watson only smiled at him.

“Erm, we could, erm, go to, that is, if you would be, erm amenable…” Watson looked at him as if he were the fairest dim-witted genius he had ever encountered.

“Lead the way, my good sir.”

“Very well, erm…this way, if you wouldn’t mind.”

 

He breathed in deeply, trying to gather courage, turned his eyes downcast and bravely took Watson’s hand who looked at him in wonder, appreciating the amount of struggle there was in this enterprise.

Watson returned the pressure he had exerted on his hand. The gesture was one of reassurance, but it also held a deeper meaning.

“Did you, er...” he started hesitantly.

“Write a lot?” Watson suggested. “No, I fear I have not written a single word.”

Holmes kept silent, sullenness looming over him. “You should not feel afflicted by this, Holmes. My mind was assaulted by thoughts... which is something that you must be accustomed to, I should think,” he finished warmly.

“Yes, quite. I must be honest and admit my reactions were very similar to yours.”

“Ah. This must explain why the violin rendition you gave tonight was so...”

“I assume it does, indeed,” he replied in a self-conscious manner.

Talking of feelings was decidedly troublesome, he surmised, even more so than expressing them through music, which in itself was strenuous. They continued walking in silence for a time.

“What you did for Miss Hooper was not only well-mannered and becoming of a gentleman, but also helpful. If it did only one thing, it helped assuage her fear. _”_

“Anyone of average intelligence could...”

“Ah, but you are not simply anyone, are you? Let me reiterate my former statement,” he said as he placed himself in front of him and his hands on his shoulders, “you _were_ extraordinary.” he finished, firmly planting his eyes into his and locking their gazes together.

He had become very still, lest the moment shatter. Positioning himself thus, Watson had reduced the distance between their bodies. Yet they were still at arm’s length from each other in case one of them suddenly changed his mind and retreated behind the safety comradeship bonds offered. Although someone with poor observation skills would see Watson being still, he exuded eagerness and was exerting himself in holding his enthusiasm under control. His general character of a respectable, well-mannered gentleman as well as his determination to await a signal from him made it apparent that Watson was waiting for him to be the one initiating their dance. He stepped forward. The two young men were progressively separated by a smaller and smaller distance until it was reduced to mere inches. They kept their eyes locked together, pupils dilating simultaneously and it was only when they became close enough to feel each other’s breath on their faces that he dared drop his gaze to Watson’s flushed cheeks and humid lips. A short moment afterwards, he glanced up, giving him a faint yet unequivocal warning on his impending kiss.

One hand on Watson’s side and the other cupping his cheek, he lowered his head, feeling his hands falling to his side. His lips were dry and warm, the perfect combination with his soft, tender ones. He could feel his own body heat rise along with Watson’s who had placed a hand behind his neck, taking the leading part, guiding him through the discovery of this new territory.

            His over active brain did not quite stop noting and analysing, but the feeling of safety and trust brought upon by such a simple act, reinforced by Watson’s other hand on his lower back, was enough to quieten it. Emboldened by the freedom he felt in having his attraction returned, he reduced the distance between the two of them even more by allowing his body close to Watson’s. He felt a smile around his lips and an obvious interest mirrored in his companion.

“Watson, I…”

“Yes, _Sherlock_ , I agree,” he replied, breathless, “we _should_ not.”

Bitter, despondent and a little irate, he disentangled himself from Watson’s embrace, straightened his hair, displaced tie and rather crumpled clothing.

“Let us return inside. The air is becoming more and more wintery.”

For a fleeting instant, Watson’s face was a picture of dejection. He recovered swiftly, and delicately placed a hand on his forearm. “Sherlock. I am absolutely _not_ saying it is an action I do not want to repeat,” he quickly amended his statement. “I want to explore this with you, despite society’s view on such affairs” he added with a smile.

“Oh,” he replied, stunned by Watson’s willingness to pursue the exploration of their unnatural attraction and feelings, which were severely reproved and punished by society.

 

As they were on their way to return inside to the guests and entertainment, pleased with the outcome of the evening, they were met by the sight of a silhouette against the windows of the mansion’s upper floor.

They exchanged a look and quickened their pace to find themselves within the walls of the estate.

“Watson, my good sir, would you please be so kind as to call on my brother for me?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you,” he replied with an intensity to his gaze and a light touch on Watson’s hand. “I need to go downstairs,” he added.

 

            As soon as Watson had passed through the doors to the festivities, he hurried to the servants’ quarters. There, he found Billy and Mrs. Hudson in an animated conversation.

“Before the year is out,” she said, “they will realise it before the year is out.”

“Are you certain you and I speak of the same people? They’re as alike as chalk and cheese!”

“Ah, but that’s what makes it more interesting!”

“I have no wish to intrude on your conversation,” he said calmly, “but were my dear brother to learn that you are entertaining rumours and hearsay amongst yourselves, the continuation of your employment would be in a fragile state.”

“Mr. Holmes!” both of them exclaimed, startled.

“I have much graver news for you to discuss, but time is of the essence,” he continued as if he had not threatened the two servants. “Billy, take the fastest horse and make haste to the nearest police station,” he ordered, quickly writing a note. “Give this note to the first high-ranking constable you see there. An Inspector will do.”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes,” Billy said, taking the note his master was handing him. “But how…-“

“They wear two stars on their epaulettes,” replied Holmes in an irritated tone. “Now go!”

“ _Mr. Holmes_ ,” said Mrs. Hudson in a firm, scolding voice “what is happening?” Despite his status of master and her position of servant, she would not hesitate to inform him of any issue that could be found in either his behaviour or speech.

“I have every reason to believe a theft is being committed on the upper floor,” he said in the same nervous voice, casting his eyes downwards in a castigated manner.

“A police intervention appears to be warranted,” Lord Mycroft Holmes’ velvety yet commanding voice declared.

“My valet, Billy, is to inform the nearest police station,” he replied.

“Billy needs to already be on his way,” Mycroft Holmes retorted, “and delay no more,” he added in a menacing voice.

“I am leaving, my Lord,” replied Billy, terrorised and scuttling away.

           

            A deafening silence settled in the room. Were all three of them alone, Mycroft would undoubtedly comment on Watson and his earlier occupation, for the Holmes brothers were known for their talents of observation and Mycroft Holmes even more so than him.

Mrs. Hudson’s presence was a shield behind which he hid without any trace of shame. He reasoned that Watson, who was opposed to any kind of slander tarnishing either of their names, was happy not to have their recent activity mentioned for it was undeniable that Mrs. Hudson, though an extremely faithful and kind-hearted person, would not hesitate to inform every living soul of Watson and his involvement.

No amount of deductive skill helped Holmes decipher his brother’s face. He remained a mystery to him.

“Mrs. Hudson, please have some wine brought up to our guests,” Mycroft ordered. “Do not give the best one,” he added. “This one shall be kept for events of the highest importance,” he said, watching Watson and him intently.

“Yes, my Lord,” replied Mrs. Hudson before leaving in the direction of the cellar.

 

“Although you might expect me to lecture and chase you from this house, Mr. Watson, and strongly admonish and discipline you, brother dear, for indecent behaviour, I shall fail to notice any gross misconduct on either of your part.”

Taken aback, the two young men had been rendered speechless by such a direct, straightforward address of their earlier indecorous encounter.

“You should bear in mind that such an act as I have stated equates to condoning actions which are reprehensible and should be amerced. You will realise that, should anything that transpired tonight ever be made public, you will either be at the very least disowned or hanged, and that I would face both the shame attached to you and the end of any important career I might have.”

Faced with the crude statement of their actions’ consequences, and despite the flaming ardour borne in their hearts and minds, neither Watson nor he dared speak. The distant look in Mycroft’s gaze, as well as the strength of the impending rejection society would impose on them sent cold shivers down their spines.

“Therefore I shall demand you be the epitome of discretion, that no one can ever suspect any unbecoming acts on your part. If either of your families orders you to marry and fulfil your duty in continuing the family name, you shall comply. I trust that your situation is clear to you,” he finished in a severe voice, laced with echoes of tenderness and regret.

 

Mycroft promptly returned upstairs after this, leaving them both on their own, confused, distressed and devastated.

“It will not come to this, Watson, I swear,” he declared solemnly.

“Indeed it won’t, my dear Holmes. You and I will continue, as we have until now, in all respectability, as companions or friends –“

“-and nothing more,” finished Holmes, wrecked.

“-‘ _in the eyes of the world_ ’ is how my sentence was supposed to end,” Watson snapped. “But if you reject adventures because there might be danger having them, then by all means, let it be ‘nothing more’,” he remarked in an acerbic, cutting tone.

Unsure whether to be delighted by Watson’s apparent desire to pursue their budding relationship or to be crushed by his outburst, Holmes decided that the best solution was to resort to silence until Watson’s anger and his anguish abated, even if it proved particularly difficult to hold back his own scathing comments.

“I need to go outside for a moment,” Watson declared. “On my own,” he added, interrupting Holmes as he offered to accompany him.

Left alone with the distraction of the turmoil of his emotions which he tried to keep a hold of, Holmes did not hear Mrs. Hudson’s footsteps as she was coming back in his direction.

“Shall I prepare you some tea, Mr. Holmes?” she asked softly, as if afraid he might lash out.

“Tea does not cure everything, Mrs. Hudson,” he replied sharply, crossing his arms.

Mrs. Hudson looked at him with an air of authority. “It is no use adopting an evasive behaviour and saying empty words, Mr. Holmes,” she retorted. “You appear to be in need of comforting, and such a common act as having a cup of tea will distract you enough to –“

“Fine. Agreed. Prepare me one.”

“It shall be done according to His Majesty’s wishes,” she whispered sarcastically. “You don’t need to act like a child, Mr. Holmes, you’re a man grown now,” she added as she placed the water onto the boiler.

He made no answer and remained motionless.

 

*

 

“Due to Mr. Sherlock Holmes’ being otherwise occupied, Lady Siger Holmes has proposed to gift her guests with her musical proficiency on the piano,” declared Mycroft Holmes. “We shall rejoice to it in the ball room,” he added, beckoning their company to relocate to the adjacent room.

“Heavens! Such an event was not planned!”

“Indeed! I’m afraid my attire is not fitting to dancing!”

“I am confident this will be ignored and that you will enthral us with your dancing skills.”

           

            The gentlemen and the ladies dithered for a minute before gathering in the ball room where Lady Siger Holmes was already sat behind the piano forte.

“I hope you shall find as much satisfaction in this new entertainment as you did in my younger son’s violin rendition,” she declared once all the guests had assembled inside. Despite the dance being impromptu, they conformed to it gladly and without protest.

As the hostess had a wide repertoire to present to her guests, there never was any silent interlude between two musical pieces.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I profoundly apologise for disrupting your evening,” said a man, dressed in a blue uniform. The assembled party recognised his station as a police officer, but Mycroft Holmes and a few others noted that his rank was that of an Inspector. He walked to him, whilst his mother continued playing so her guests’ amusement would continue.

“Let us retreat from the room so as not to cause further disturbance, Inspector,” said Mycroft Holmes without preamble.

“Lead the way, my Lord,” he replied, immediately deducing the hierarchical superiority of his interlocutor. “A young man rode to the station, anxious to find a “high ranking constable” to deliver his message to.”

“That would have been Billy, my younger brother’s personal valet. I trust you have read the note he has written you?”

“Indeed, I have. Such words, such alarm…! I mean no offense, my Lord, however I must verify there is no deception in your brother’s words.”

“I shall personally assure you that Mr. Sherlock Holmes is not prone to deceit, nor to any other moral inadequacy, Inspector,” he replied coldly.

“Naturally, my Lord. It was not my intention to imply –“

“Please proceed to your investigation, Inspector,” Mycroft Holmes abruptly interrupted. “It is doubtful you would need help in apprehending the suspect. Nevertheless, I suggest you call in the men who have come along with you, for his resistance is to be expected,” he finished, returning to the ball room.

           

            The police officer’s interruption had not disturbed the party who continued on dancing.

“My Lord,” said a small voice from behind him, “I hope there is no trouble about, the police…”

“Calm yourself, Miss Hooper,” he replied soothingly, “everything is quite all right. The minor disturbance that required police intervention is being dealt with.”

“I am relieved to hear it, my Lord,” brightened Miss Hooper. “It would have caused such disappointment to depart from so successfully entertaining a reception!”

“Such compliments must be paid to the hostess, Miss Hooper.”

“Indeed, my Lord. I shall tell her immediately,” she said quickly. “Mr. Watson!” she exclaimed as he walked through the door. “Where have you been all evening, I dare say I have not seen much of your company,” she told him. “If I did not know better, I would think Mr. Sherlock Holmes has spoilt any appreciation you had in the society of your peers,” she taunted him.

“That is most impertinent, Miss Hooper,” intervened Mycroft Holmes, who had perceived an incident might occur. “And unbecoming of a lady. You –“

“-will be kind enough to drink water for the remainder of the evening, Miss Hooper,” interrupted Watson with a pointed look at the half empty glass. “A wine of such quality is bound to entice anyone into drinking to excess, which I assure you is not an experience you want to have,” he added, leading Miss Hooper away to a comfortable armchair.

“Thank you, Mr. Watson, for being such a gentleman. I am certain – “

“I do not think it is proper to make assumptions, Miss Hooper. It is undeniable that you should concentrate on matters of importance at the moment” he said gently as he noticed that her fresh and rosy skin had become sickly pale. “Would you bring a fresh glass of water, please?” he asked an attending servant. “And do ask for Mrs. Hudson to come upstairs, as well.”

“Very well, sir.”

           

            Sherlock Holmes entered the room and, with his violin, joined the piece his mother was playing, in the hope that the sound they produced would be loud enough to cover any disturbance happening on the upper floor.

Watson remained sat next to Miss Hooper who was not in the best of states. He indeed looked the most comfortable when taking care of others. This could prove detrimental to their relationship, as he had no spontaneous consideration for his peers. His thoughts on the subject were pessimistic despite what the evidence suggested, and Watson would indubitably not accept such a gloomy state of mind for long.

His musings were interrupted by the entrance of a police officer in the ball room. Albeit discreet, he did not escape his notice. Miss Hooper, who seemed to be faring slightly better, took note of him as well. Watson looked reasonably disconcerted when she tried to move to him. He gathered that Watson was opposed to her moving at all, and reasoned that he must have stated the impropriety of it, for she appeared to revise her opinion and abandon her decision altogether.

His gaze followed the Inspector as he walked to his brother, taut as a military man who would deliver a report to a feared commanding officer. Their conversation appeared to become more relaxed as it progressed. It was evident that Mycroft Holmes, who had offered wine to the Inspector, had invited him to enjoy the festivities. Accepting the wine, with a slight inclination of his head, he turned around to explore and mix with the other guests.

He returned his attention to his brother, whose mask had dropped and showed for the briefest of times a tired, sombre look, before promptly resuming his duty as host.

 

His attention was drawn to movements outside. Still playing, he walked to the windows and observed two events unfold. As he witnessed the first snow of the winter, he realised that this darker season would in fact prove to be the brighter he had lived through. Ideas to spend time with Watson immediately flourished in his mind, each wilder than the last, and he was met with an intense eagerness to put them in motion if only to see him smile.

            A man was being taken by the police force, manacled and put into a closed vehicle. They stared at each other, and he saw madness glow in the man’s eyes. As he was retreating from the window, he saw the man bow deeply and, as he straightened up, swept his tongue across his smiling lips as quickly as would a snake, fixing its prey.

He felt a shiver run down his spine.

 

*

 

 

 

“Snow has come early, this year,” declared Watson in a calm voice.

“Indeed, it has. Let us hope the season will be festive in more ways than its name suggests.”

“I have every confidence to believe you are competent enough to make it stimulating, my good sir.”

“I will be endeavouring to, yes. But I shall require your assistance.”

“With pleasure, Holmes,” replied Watson warmly, a sincere smile on his face.

“Tonight’s social gathering was a success,” a third person commented.

“Indeed it was, brother dear. Despite the bleak experience of a criminal offender roaming in the mansion, all our guests seem to have appreciated it,” he retorted.

“You would do well to respect your elders, brother dear.”

“Agreed. You would admit however, that threats are effective as long as they do not prove to be empty. Good night, brother dear,” he said, taking his leave and retreating from his brother’s presence. “Watson, would you accompany me? I need to observe the physics of falling snow and start an observation chart on its influence over people’s disposition.”

“Mr. Watson, if my brother cannot be reasonable – “

“Observation! Physics! Science!” he shouted. “These are fields _ruled_ by reason! It is not possible for me not to see reason, brother dear,” he countered.

“So be it. I trust you to have enough sense for two persons, Mr. Watson. Do not give me any reason to withdraw this trust,” he added in a sinister tone of voice as the two young men walked away.

“What is not impossible, however, is for me to _choose_ not to see it and abide by it,” he whispered as they passed through the side entrance to enter the garden. Smiling broadly, he took Watson’s hand before kissing it.

“Shall I consider this as evidence?”

“You shan’t discard it,” he said. He watched the starry sky before adding, as he sat down “This is the ideal situation to observe the skies, my dear fellow.”

“I cannot raise any objection. You are the scientist, it is only logical you would know what to look for,” he declared, settling comfortably next to Holmes. “Do you not experience the slightest fear that such ghastly cold temperatures could potentially bring sickness upon us?”

“No, I do not. I am confident that body heat will provide us with everything we might need and prevent any misfortune befalling us,” he said, mischief written all over his features.

“You, my good sir, bring forth the most sinful thoughts and are not underserving of your own den of iniquity.”

“Watson, any location I am in corresponds to that very definition,” he breathed into his ear, enjoying that Watson was unnerved by this statement, his cheeks having turned to a light vermillion, making him an even more pleasing sight.

He was about to retreat to a more decent position when the urge stroke to press his lips against the ear he just talked into. The very audible sigh Watson exhaled led him to caress his barely exposed neck. The impediment produced by Watson’s shirt could prove detrimental to his idea, but Holmes was resourceful and undeterred by decorum and its rules.

‘Holmes…’ Watson whispered, anxious yet obviously interested.

‘Apologies, my dear fellow,” he said, slightly withdrawing to a more decent posture. ‘This shall not happen again.’

A look of loss and disappointment showed on Watson’s features. He briefly placed his hand on Watson’s and proceeded to observe the falling snow, confident he would remember what he noted.

‘I do hope you will not have us stay outside for long. It is _quite_ cold, after all,’ Watson said, almost immediately after he had adopted an airy, scientific air. He looked at him smugly.

Watson did not notice and started to press his hands together in order to warm them.

Holmes took his hands between his.

‘Your hands are much colder than mine. We should return inside, Holmes.’

He ignored the protest and guided them to his lips. Blowing hot air onto his hands, looking intently into Watson’s eyes, he whispered ‘Let us go on an intense, ardent adventure, John.’

Watson returned his stare in an equally heated way. He heaved a distinct, eager sigh and nodded almost unnoticeably. ‘Let’s,’ he whispered, mesmerised by Holmes. Emboldened by Watson’s earnest assent, he let one hand explore his outfit. The soft fabric of flannel, as well as the sweetness he could smell on Watson enticed him to explore more and to bring their clothed bodies closer. Setting a hand under Watson’s vest, all the while exploring southern regions of his body, he could feel his heart beating increasingly fast beneath his silk shirt.

Emotions had prevailed over Watson’s restraints. He grabbed Holmes’ neck and brought their mouths together, a clear enticement to further the exploration of their current activity. Holmes, who had not anticipated this reaction, found himself falling into Watson’s arms. He reflected that the situation could have been rather awkward, but the outcome was exceedingly pleasing.

He felt Watson’s firm interest against his own and, despite the restrictions imposed by clothing, he felt an intense satisfaction from the contact, which was shared by both parties, if the gasps escaping Watson’s and his mouths were of any indication.

Despite a momentary lapse of balance, their lips were still pressed against each other’s and their hands’ exploration, so careful and almost timid minutes before, was becoming frantic. Watson’s had left his neck to discover nether territories, and their tightness seemed to arouse a particular interest in him, for he maintained and repeated it with unfaltering enthusiasm. He held himself closer, Watson being the anchor to the wrecking ship which he was aboard, unsettled hands fluttering between his hair and his torso, the latter more appealing than the former, until he could not bear such overwhelming sensations any longer. Freeing their lips from their sealed embrace, he buried his face in the crook of Watson’s neck and inhaled deeply, in order to find a semblance of control over his scary, rebellious body. But his scent was bewitching, and he soon forgot his apprehension at letting go. Through ragged breath he painted his neck with kisses, hands hectically fumbling with his undergarments and explored the foreign region whence emanated his masculine power, thus eliciting soft moans from Watson’s lips. They grew louder and louder as their stimulation increased.

Holmes tried to recapture Watson’s mouth who let out a cry.

“Teeth,” was all he said before surrendering to him, body stiffening briefly before returning to a loosen state. Watson’s _petite mort_ gave Holmes a perfectly sound reason to vanquish his apprehension at letting go. He relinquished the very feeble hold he had tried to regain on his body. All thoughts gone from his mind, eyes closed of their own accord, perspiration on his body, his release burst in an explosion of sensations. He could hear the sound of his own heartbeat, the silent moan escaping his lips, coming from deep in his throat, he could feel his breathing slowing down and the hair on his body remain upright. He opened his eyes. Everything was of a brighter colour. Watson was particularly radiant, exuding happiness. His breath in the cold night air was visible, but he didn’t seem to mind the temperature that much. His look was that of an adolescent who glowed with contentment, that of a young man who harboured no regret at what had happened, that of a man at peace with himself.

Smells were stronger as well. He was more aware of Watson’s scent now than before their encounter as he did not need to pay a particular attention to any specific part of him to recognise his strong yet sweet fragrance. He noticed the sharp, strong smell of the pine trees that were situated five hundred yards from the mansion. And noted the change in the air when it transported the rich odour of cut wood. He shifted back to his initial sitting position in obvious reluctance and pressed his lips to Watson’s.

“Watson… _John_ …,” he started, still slightly out of breath.

“I agree, Holmes. It is cold outside. We must relocate,” he said as he gave Holmes tender kisses. The fire that consumed them had subsided, but the passion continued burning. He took Watson’s hand in his as a pretext to help him stand, and they walked back to the mansion, arm in arm, their bodies closer than was respectable for two gentlemen, the only noticeable evidence of their encounter. As wealthy gentlemen, they could afford very good quality garments and the winter season produced the advantage of thick fabric which could ward against most hindrance, whether they be related to physical manifestations of the weather or any other type of display.

 


End file.
